Isaac's Gatlin: Revisited
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: Six years later, I've decided to rework one of my favorite pieces. My return will be brief but sweet... I hope.
1. Author's Note

I can hardly believe it's been six years since I spent my summers feverishly writing Children of the Corn fanfiction.

I'm 21 now, and while it may seem silly, I recently returned to this category to look over some of my old writing. I am currently an English Creative Writing minor at Missouri State University, so I'm always looking for ways to improve the way I write.

Seeing that these old stories of mine are some of my favorite pieces of work, I decided to return (albeit briefly) to rehash one of my best received fics, "Isaac's Gatlin".

While I know at least SnuffSnuff will read (as her reviews also prompted me to return), I hope there are at least a few corn-fanatics left over from the olden days who will enjoy this.

- Meagan


	2. August

**Summary/Important Information:** This is a reworking of my six-year-old piece "Isaac's Gatlin". The plot will stick pretty closely to the old one but I reserve the right to take creative liberties here and there. This takes place up to a year before Burt and Vicky come through Gatlin.

* * *

Chapter I

August

_The kitchen still smelled of bacon and eggs, but something was wrong._

_His small feet padded across the linoleum floor, skin sticking to the tile in the late summer heat. Something inside his belly rumbled low and insistent. He was unfamiliar with the feeling, like a small and crawly thing had found its way there, but it was early in the morning and he was very hungry._

_A cast-iron pan sat abandoned on the stovetop. Scrambled eggs were slowly congealing in a sick lump, and even though it smelled delicious they were no longer appetizing. He looked around, eyes traveling over the unused eggs and then the clean plates beside the oven. Mommy was never this forgetful. Mommy wouldn't forget about breakfast. It was the most important meal of the day._

_He walked through the kitchen, past the eggs and strips of cold greasy bacon, past the flawlessly set dining room table and untouched forks. The feeling in his stomach had settled into a hard stone of unease. Something was wrong, despite the Sunday morning smells of breakfast. And now he could smell something new._

_It was coppery and unpleasant, the way his hands smelled after he handled the mass of pennies he kept in a jar in his room. He opened his mouth to call for Mommy as he turned the corner into the den._

_He was walking quickly, too quickly to stop when he saw her there on the couch. He knew his feet needed to stop moving but his brain seemed to have paused, because there was Mommy, there she was, right there. He took a few more steps and finally stopped when the pads of his feet sank into the thick red blood pooling on the floor._

_He just stood there, his mouth still open, his feet horribly warm as the blood oozed from the plush carpet up between his toes. He couldn't move, but it was okay because Mommy wasn't moving either -- she was on the couch in her Sunday dress, her white apron splattered with red, one arm above her head and her mouth open too, smiling a little bit, just a little. And so everything was okay because Mommy was smiling. But if everything was okay then why was that horrible noise coming out of him, why was he screaming as if he'd never stop?_

"Nathan! Nathan, oh stop, please stop screaming!"

The little boy launched forward into her arms, his small body racked with sobs. She brought her hands up to his hair and pulled him closer, pressing him tightly against her chest.

"Nathan, please stop," she murmured into his ear. "Please, you need to be quiet, you'll wake them and then they'll come. Just breathe. Just calm down and breathe."

She could feel him slowly relaxing, his little shoulders untensing as her brother began to cry quietly.

"Look," he whispered, the sound wet against her nightshirt. "The Lord is coming from his dwelling place, he comes down and treads the high places of the earth." She frowned and tried to pry him from her, but his fingers clung tightly to her shirt.

"What are you talking about, sweetie?"

"Mommy said it," he said, peering up at her. His brown eyes were welling over with tears. "Mommy told me, she said somethin' bad is gonna happen, somethin' real bad…" The words made him crumble again and he buried his face into the curve of her breasts, his tears leaving sad stains on her soft cotton t-shirt.

"Shh, nothing bad is going to happen," she cooed. The words left a bad taste in her mouth. "Just settle, settle, it was only a dream. Nothing bad will happen. I'm right here, Nathan." There was a pause as he snuffled quietly. Her eyes flicked from the small hand gripping her sleeve to the open window of his bedroom. It was early, but the light outside was strange and yellow like a faded photograph. August heat rippled the air. It would be hot.

"Rebekah?" The sound shook her from her thoughts, but it was difficult to look away from the odd yellow sky. She forced herself to meet the pale, upturned face staring expectantly at her.

"Yes?"

"Isaac says that's not my name anymore," he whispered, his dark eyes serious. "Isaac says my name is Micah. He says it is a name of great honor, because Micah was a prophet that the Lord spoke to." She looked at him and felt suddenly uneasy. It was awful, but she didn't want to hold him anymore. It was hard to even meet his eyes.

"That's right," she agreed stiffly, pulling out of his loosened grip. He looked at her sullenly from the bed as she stood, awkward, her need to leave him almost palpable. "I nearly forgot. I'm sorry. Can you sleep now?" He gazed at her intently. There were still tears on his pale little face.

"Yes," he said. "I was weak, but I'm fine now. Isaac says the nightmares are tests. Tests from Him."

"Of course he does," she murmured, but she stood with her hand on the doorknob, fingers cold against the old metal. They faced each other, the summer heat of the room simmering in the space between the door and the bed. "You can sleep now?"

"Yes," he said again.

"Okay. I'll wake you for breakfast." She turned the knob in her hand.

"Don't bother," he murmured, rolling over to pull the covers to his chin. "I won't eat any."

She left him there, her heart pounding in her chest for no good reason, and went to the kitchen. She made sure not to look into the den. Those big brown stains in the carpet made her sick every time.


	3. Lace Curtains

**Summary/Important Information:** This is a reworking of my six-year-old piece "Isaac's Gatlin". The plot will stick pretty closely to the old one but I reserve the right to take creative liberties here and there. This takes place up to a year before Burt and Vicky come through Gatlin.

* * *

Chapter II

Lace Curtains

Micah found her reading.

He bobbed down the stairs and spotted her in the kitchen, poised neatly on the counter next to the stove. One of Rebekah's long legs hung off the edge, her toes grazing the floor, and the other was pulled beneath her in a distinctly catlike manner. She was very pretty, sitting like that. Too bad she was frowning.

Her forehead was wrinkled in a distasteful way as she gazed intently at her book, the cover page folded back so it was set in a permanent curve. Micah knew she hadn't seen him yet. She was too caught up in her story. He ventured farther into the kitchen, not wanting to frighten or interrupt her, but he felt markedly attention-hungry today so he gave one of the dining room chairs a deliberate kick. It made an ugly skidding noise on the tile and Rebekah looked up, unfazed.

"Good morning, Nathan," she said coolly. Micah frowned back at her.

"Beck-_ee,"_ he whined, pulling out the chair he'd kicked so he could sit at the table.

"Sorry." Her tone made it clear she wasn't, but he knew by now there wasn't much use in arguing with his big sister. She always won. Micah began drawing invisible pictures on the wooden grain of the table, his eight-year-old attention span fluttering on to other subjects. It was so hot already; his thin pajamas stuck to his skin with a light layer of sweat, and it was only ten o'clock.

"Has Isaac come yet today?" The thought thrilled and disappointed him at the same time. It would be awful to have missed Isaac. Rebekah's tan form shifted a little in of the corner of his eye, but her voice didn't betray her.

"No, _Micah," _she said quietly. "He hasn't."

He popped out his lower lip, frustrated with her this morning. There was something different about his Becky and he definitely didn't like it.

"He _is_ coming, right?" Micah pushed, desperate for a real answer. "He comes every morning. Isaac wouldn't forget about me, would he?" Rebekah laughed suddenly and he looked at her, surprised, but she was still reading her book.

"You know what, Micah? I am very certain when I say that Isaac would _never _forget his morning visits." She laughed again and absently pushed some blonde hair out of her face. "I would be very surprised if he did not come again today. Very, pleasantly surprised."

Micah propped his elbows up on the table, frustrated. His big sister did not like Isaac, not even a little, and it wasn't fair. Isaac was a good man, he knew this for sure; he kept them safe and happy. He made the corn grow again. Micah would do anything for a sliver of the attention Isaac gave Rebekah. She could be so ungrateful.

"You," he began slowly, "are being _mean."_

"To who?" she asked. Rebekah looked up briefly from her book. "You?" It was a trap.

"No." Micah looked back at the table, her blue eyes burning him. "To Isaac. He's a good leader, he made the corn grow again, he visits every day!"

"Oh yes, he sure does," Rebekah agreed, and laughed again. She shook her head, grinning, and placed one slender finger in the pages of her book. Micah chanced a look at her but she still had that funny look in her eye, so he looked at the book instead. On the curved, warped cover he could see a big golden frame. Inside was a scary man wearing nice clothes. Maybe the book was making Rebekah so unpleasant.

"You're being _mean,"_ he said again, and felt his lip tremble with the possibility of tears. Instantly Rebekah slid from the counter, fluid and beautiful as her long hair trailed behind her. She set the book on the table near his hands and pulled Micah into a hug. Her sun-baked skin was warm on his face.

"I'm sorry, sugar," she said gently. He felt her smooth his thick black hair back from his forehead. "It's been a rough day already. It's so hot. I'm just cranky, that's all." Micah bathed in her good humor for a moment then wriggled from her grasp.

"It's okay. You're not mean, not really." He glanced outside to the early August corn, green and rustling. A thought occurred to him. "Have you seen—"

"The boys are outside playing. They came by earlier but you were still asleep." Rebekah slid into a kitchen chair and picked up her paperback. "If you hurry you can be back before Isaac visits. He usually comes around lunchtime." She looked at him and smiled, a much prettier smile than she'd given him all day. "I'll have sandwiches made too, how's that sound?"

"Great!" Micah ran to her and pressed a wet kiss against her cheek, then did a lap around the kitchen table and hurried for the stairs. "I'm gonna go get dressed!"

"You better be back for lunch," Rebekah called after him. "I won't run and find you if Isaac comes while you're gone. If you miss him, tough shit."

"Potty-mouth-Becky," he crowed joyfully and skidded around the corner, hoping that Mordechai and Jedediah weren't too far off.

* * *

Rebekah stood at the window over the sink, pulling back the white lace curtain slightly so she could see the cornfield outside. Micah's little head of black hair bobbed up and down as he darted through the stalks. She watched until he was too far into the field to see.

The curtains her mother had picked out. Rebekah always thought they looked trashy but her mother had insisted they were "quaint", which merely translated to "trashy" as far as she was concerned. Now her fingers played across the delicate designs, surprised at how rough lace could feel, how intricate the stitching was. She found herself wondering who had made these curtains for her mother to find at the fair and bring home, where they would frame the window overlooking the cornfields, regardless of what happened in the den or any other home in Gatlin. The holes her parents left behind when they went the way they did were subtle but deep. Rebekah could keep them from her mind most days, but other days she found herself touching some stupid item she hadn't noticed in years, hoping desperately to touch the people these things belonged to.

"Good morning, Rebekah."

She had been so enraptured with the delicate workings of the lace curtain that the voice was like cold water down her back. Rebekah whirled from the window, already knowing she'd see his small dark form standing there in the kitchen and still angry that it was true.

"Isaac, you little bastard," she snapped, and he grinned.

"My my," Isaac murmured, walking slowly towards her. "Your brother is right. You _do_ have a potty-mouth."

"Go fuck yourself," Rebekah said instantly. He paused, and then his lips curled into another smile. It looked sick on his pale face.

"That's not very nice."

"I'm not a very nice girl." She turned from him and ran some hot water in the sink. There was only her dish from breakfast that needed washing but there was an off chance he'd talk less if she looked busy. Isaac leaned comfortably against the counter near her, their elbows touching. It was not an accident.

"Oh, I could disagree with that," he said smoothly, but when she snapped her head up to curse at him he was holding her dirty plate and fork obligingly towards her. Rebekah set her mouth in a thin line and took them.

"Thank you."

"I happen to think you're a _very _nice girl," Isaac murmured, and paused as she reached for the dish soap. Her pajama top was riding low on her chest. She was suddenly and painfully aware of it.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Rebekah asked harshly, tugging the thin material higher so he would stop staring at the curve of her breasts. It didn't help. She could feel his eyes like small sticky hands on her.

When he didn't answer, Rebekah turned from the sink and forced him to meet her gaze.

"Every morning you come here," she said, crossing her arms, "and every morning I have nothing to say to you. What do you think is going to change? That one day you'll walk in here and I'll have something to talk about besides how the corn is doing and how much I wish you were elsewhere?" He smiled evenly back at her, amused, as if she were a small child doing something very silly.

"I simply enjoy the conversation," Isaac murmured. "However limited it may be." Frustrated, Rebekah turned back to the sink and turned off the tap. She dunked the plate in the soapy water a few times.

"Micah's not even here. Come back later." Rebekah glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He made no attempt to move.

"Some light reading?" Isaac indicated the abandoned paperback on the table. "The Picture of Dorian Gray? Oh Rebekah," he chuckled, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "when will you learn the Scripture is the only thing worth reading?" She gritted her teeth and began scrubbing her plate much harder than the scant egg stains warranted.

"Isaac, you're testing my patience. Get out of here you little –"

"Careful," he warned, and rested his hand gently on her back. She stiffened so suddenly that she was sure Isaac noticed, but he didn't seem to be discouraged. "Careful what you say, Rebekah dear. It can get you in a lot of trouble."

"Careful what you touch, Isaac dear," Rebekah said brightly, ignoring the cold chills his touch sent rolling down her spine. "It can get you castrated." She was determined he wouldn't see her flinch.

"I saw how you treated young Micah before I came in." He glazed over her threat and moved his hand to her waist, his fingers trailing down the soft cotton of her night shirt. It occurred to her that maybe this was why he came early: to see her in her pajamas. She shuddered a little and suddenly felt her legs were too bare, even in the thick summer heat. "You're certainly on edge today, hm?"

"Before you _let yourself_ in," Rebekah corrected, and remembered briefly the sound the screwdriver made when Malachai crept in one night and disabled all the locks in her house. It had been Isaac's order, of course, but the metallic scraping and his heavy steps past her door when she was supposed to be sleeping was bone-chilling. She was told that all the houses had the same treatment, but he lingered outside her room for far too long and Rebekah had to wonder why hers had been the first.

"Rebekah," Isaac chuckled, clearly amused, "you are simply a ray of sunshine today. Radiant as always." He paused, licked his lips, and his fingers began to move again. "Simply… radiant." His hand began to move southward, past her waist and nearing the hem of her nightshirt.

The chills turned to white-hot rage, and Rebekah turned quickly.

She grabbed him roughly by the wrist of the offending hand and twisted it hard, using it as leverage to pin him to the counter. His body slammed into the cabinets, and her body slammed against his; it hurt a little, but it hurt Isaac more because he grunted loudly and didn't struggle.

"Let's get a few things straight," Rebekah hissed, her mouth close to Isaac's ear. "_First _of all, my name is not Rebekah, it's Ellen. And _second _of all—" His face didn't display any of the numerous emotions she had expected, so she twisted his arm a little further.

"Ow," Isaac said, his tone bored.

"_Second _of all," she continued, so angry it was difficult to not break the little twerp's arm, "if you _ever _touch _anything _that you have not been invited to touch – and trust me, you will _never _be invited to touch –" Rebekah twisted again, her resolve to remain rational waning. That crack would sound so wonderful…

"_Ow," _he repeated.

"You will find yourself losing some parts that I promise you will sorely miss. Got it?" Isaac didn't respond; his silence was infuriating, and while a part of her wanted nothing more than to give it that final twist and hear him scream, the shrinking bit of sanity in her brain warned her that there were no doctors left in Gatlin, and a teen-preacher with a broken arm would be far more difficult to deal with than regular psychotic. While the first day of August had brought her a strangely irate mood, Rebekah considered that she did _not _in fact want Isaac to leave her house with bone protruding from his skin.

She put a tiny bit more pressure on his arm and he finally answered.

"Oh yes," Isaac said brightly, his tone complacent. "I understand." Rebekah released him at last and returned to the dishes as if nothing had happened.

"Remember it," she whispered, dunking her hands back in the water. It was lukewarm. The soap felt greasy.

Laughter came from outside. Rebekah glanced up in time to see Micah scurry past the window, curly-haired Jedediah trailing behind. They scampered back into the corn, calling for Mordechai.

"Beautiful child," Isaac murmured, rubbing his shoulder thoughtfully. Rebekah rinsed the dish and set it in the now-drained sink. She looked up and glimpsed Micah's black shirt disappearing through the stalks.

"Yes, he is," she agreed, the first genuine words she'd given him all morning. Micah giggled somewhere in the corn and Rebekah felt a real smile spread across her lips. Isaac glanced at her sideways, a dark smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I wasn't talking about your brother."

"Get _out, _Isaac," Rebekah said softly. She didn't look away from the window, even though Micah was long gone and all that was left was crisp green cornstalks. Her fingers found the dishtowel and she began drying her hands so he couldn't see them shake.

"Certainly, Rebekah," Isaac said politely, as if it were the first time she had suggested such a thing. He walked for the door, taking his time, and paused when his hand met the knob. "I will see you tonight, I trust?"

"Only if Micah wants to go." She stared straight ahead. She refused to look at him. There was a distinct possibility she would be sick.

"Oh, he will," Isaac said quietly, a smile in his voice. "He always does."

The door closed at last with a soft click. Rebekah waited a few long, horrible moments to make sure he was really gone. When she saw his dark form slipping out through the cornfield, she set down the dishtowel and began taking down the curtains. She couldn't be caught off guard like that again.


	4. The Wisdom of Malachai

Summary/Important Information: This is a reworking of my six-year-old piece "Isaac's Gatlin"

**Summary/Important Information:** This is a reworking of my six-year-old piece "Isaac's Gatlin". The plot will stick pretty closely to the old one but I reserve the right to take creative liberties here and there. This takes place up to a year before Burt and Vicky come through Gatlin.

Chapter III

The Wisdom of Malachai

Jed was hiding somewhere, he just had to find him.

Micah darted back and forth between the summer corn, the stalks still fresh and green enough that it didn't scrape his face when he pushed through. He had to be careful; there were a lot of ways to get hurt in the field. Mordechai had said he was too old to play hide and seek with them, but he had a nasty habit of waiting out of sight until someone ran by so he could grab their ankles and watch them fall. Once Micah had been prey to such a trap and fell so hard his palms felt bruised. He wanted to tell Rebekah but Mordechai said only babies told, so he kept his mouth shut and proved that he wasn't a baby. He was wary of Mordechai now.

He thought he heard Jed giggle to his left, so Micah took a sharp turn and pumped his legs harder, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. It was already so hot, Becky had been right about that, but he was still dressed all in black – Isaac had given him the clothes, smaller versions of what he himself wore, things that no longer fit him. Micah didn't care that they were hand-me-downs. He got to look just like Isaac, something no one else did. Isaac had told him he was special – he said it was a great honor to be so blessed, and while Micah didn't really understand what he meant he knew it was a good thing. Isaac thought he was blessed. And he visited every morning.

Micah paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead, heard another laugh suppressed beneath a hand, and took off running again. He glimpsed a plaid shirt slipping through the corn just a few feet ahead.

"I'm gonna get you!" Micah shouted gleefully, took another swift turn to cut Jed off at the pass, and somehow ended up on his behind.

"Good morning, young Micah." Isaac stood above him, a shock of black against the late summer sky. Micah shook his head, the wind knocked out of him a bit, and then smiled eagerly up at his leader.

"Good morning, brother Isaac!" he chirped. He couldn't help but grin, it was like a wonderful surprise. Isaac smiled calmly down at him and extended a hand to help him up. Micah took it, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm sorry, I was just runnin' so fast –"

"Do not apologize," Isaac said pleasantly. "You are young. It is a good day to play outside." His gaze flicked past him to the edge of the cornfield; Micah twisted to see Jedediah standing there, a troubled expression on his face. "Good morning, Jedediah," Isaac called, and waved merrily at him. Jed nodded but didn't move.

"Yeah, it's a great day!" Micah piped up, eager to have Isaac's attention back on him. "Do you want to come play? We're hiding and seeking!" The older boy looked down and shook his head, smiling with adult patience.

"There are things to which I must attend," he said kindly, and Micah drooped a little. But he didn't want to look like a baby, so he pouted for only a moment before brightening.

"Oh, okay, I understand. You've got a very important job." He nodded in what he hoped was a mature way.

"That's right, Micah," Isaac agreed, and patted him gently on the head. He winced immediately and returned his hand to his right shoulder. Micah frowned.

"What's wrong, brother Isaac?"

"Oh, nothing," he assured him, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. "It will heal." Isaac paused, then smiled again – a large, strange smile that Micah didn't really like. It didn't really look like a smile. "Your sister is quite a spitfire, isn't she?"

"What's that mean?" Micah asked, but Isaac waved him off like he was batting at a fly.

"Nevermind." He patted him on the head again. "If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Malachai," he murmured thoughtfully, then leaned down to Micah as if he had a secret to share. "Will you be coming to the meeting tonight?"

"Of _course!"_ Micah blurted, a little too eagerly, but Isaac continued to smile his strange smile.

"Good," he said softly, and straightened, his lips spreading into an even wider grin. He shot a look at Jedediah, who was still perched anxiously at the edge of the cornfield. "Very good. I shall see you tonight then." Isaac turned on his heel and began walking away without waiting for a reply.

"Bye, Isaac!" Micah called after him, waving emphatically. Isaac's visits were always so exciting. He was such an important guy.

"Micah," Jed called suddenly, his voice tense. "Come play."

"Coming," he answered, and looked back for Isaac. He was already gone. Well, he was busy, so it was to be expected –

"You're IT!" screamed Mordechai, tackling him hard from the side. Micah stumbled, nearly losing his footing, and tried to pretend he wasn't startled.

"You weren't even _playing!"_ His heart was pounding in his chest; when he looked up to accuse Mordechai of being a bully, Micah spotted his sister's face in the window of their kitchen. She looked worried.

"Mordechai, _don't," _he heard Jed cry, and they both took off. Micah didn't have time to think about his sister – besides, she _always _looked worried these days – so he darted through the rows, stealthy as always. The game was afoot.

* * *

The sun was high in the pale summer sky when Rebekah left the house. It was muggy outside, the air thick and wet with the kind of heat only found in the early days of August. She lifted her blonde hair off the back of her neck, already regretting her choice to leave it down. It would get hotter before anything else.

She found Malachai brooding in the barn.

"Craig," Rebekah said, hesitating in the doorway. She didn't want to startle him, but it didn't seem she had, because he lifted a lightly freckled hand and waved it carelessly her way.

"Try again, Rebekah," he said boredly. Malachai was sprawled in the hay, his legs crossed idly as he stared with disinterest at the wooden rafters. She pursed her lips, frustrated, then forced a thin smile.

_"Malachai," _she corrected. He tilted his head back so he could see her, albeit upside-down, and grinned.

"Much better. You forget so often." Malachai gestured aimlessly at the thick piles of hay around him. "Sit. Or are you looking for Isaac?" A laugh escaped her throat, and Rebekah herself was surprised to hear how cold it sounded.

"Wow, Malachai, you are _hilarious,"_ she said sarcastically, making no move to sit.

"So I've been told." Malachai observed her unblinkingly from his hay pile. His upside-down gaze was making her uncomfortable. Rebekah shifted her weight from foot to foot, then sighed irritably. The barn was stuffy.

"It's fucking _hot _in here, Craig," she snapped, then frowned at his heavy jeans and thick flannel shirt. The boy wasn't even sweating. "Christ, are you from the South Pole or something? Do you come from penguins? It's like 90 degrees outside and this barn is the fucking furnace of Hell." Malachai laughed suddenly, his voice echoing in the high rafters.

"Rebekah!" he chuckled, genuinely amused. "That mouth! I thought cursing like that went out in middle school."

"If that's true," she said coolly, fanning her face with her hand, "it doesn't matter anyway. School's sort of 'out for summer', wouldn't you say?"

"You've got a point there." Malachai picked up a piece of hay and began fiddling with it absently. "Sit, the blood's rushing to my head looking at you like this." Reluctantly, she moved farther into the barn and opted for an overturned bucket as a seat. He shifted to see her better and she noted that his face was an ugly flush of red. She wrinkled her nose lightly in distaste but Malachai didn't notice.

"I didn't just come here to sweat my ass off, Malachai," Rebekah said, twisting up her long hair and holding it with one hand to keep it off her neck. "I've been having a bit of trouble lately. I wanted to talk to you about it."

"Well, I'm honored," he said pleasantly. He rolled the piece of hay between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling again. "Go on. What sort of trouble could you get into in this place?" Rebekah shot him a dark look, and Malachai smirked. "Besides the obvious, of course."

"It's Isaac," she said bluntly. He seemed to become more interested; the redhead propped himself up on his elbows, placing the hay between his lips to chew on. Suddenly embarrassed, Rebekah faltered. "He's, uh, well… he's been coming around a lot lately."

"He visits every morning," Malachai urged gently. He already knew.

"Yeah, he does." The bucket she sat on was uncomfortable. Rebekah shifted a few times, then gave up and collapsed in the hay a foot or two from Malachai. It was hot and scratchy, but at least it didn't make her ass fall asleep. "And he used to come for Micah. Well, at least, I thought he did. Now he comes earlier and earlier. He… he seems like he's trying to get me alone."

"Did he catch you in your nightie?" Rebekah dropped the hair twisted tightly in her fist, her mouth flapping open stupidly. Malachai snickered, apparently pleased to catch her so off-guard. "I'm just saying," he chuckled, "that a boy his age… it's not hard to figure out his intentions."

"A boy _your _age, _Malachai,"_ Rebekah countered. She pursed her lips. "So are those your intentions too? Because I'm hanging by a fucking thread here. I need to know that while we're having this very serious conversation you're not picturing me naked or looking down my shirt like that little fucking creep."

"Can't blame him," Malachai mused, and held up his hands in defense as Rebekah threw a handful of straw at his face. "All right, all right, no naked-picturing here. But I'm not sure what you expect me to do for you."

"Aren't you two like the best of friends? You follow him wherever he goes."

"I do _not," _he spat heatedly, shooting up from his languid position. She raised an eyebrow.

"My my, what a touchy subject!" Rebekah grinned as Malachai sank back down to his elbows sullenly. "So we're in agreement. Neither one of us wants to be Isaac's right hand… anything." She gave a heavy sigh and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Now listen. Really. Attraction would be one thing, but this kid… well... you know what he did. We all know. So we know what he's capable of."

They both sat for a moment in silence.

"I'm scared, Malachai," she said at last. He chomped thoughtfully on his piece of hay for another long pause.

"It wasn't just Isaac," Malachai murmured. His fingers played through the straw beneath him, restless. "You know that. He didn't touch a weapon. He didn't act alone." He looked up at her with large, dark eyes. "I played quite a part in it too, if you remember correctly."

"Yes." Rebekah shifted uncomfortably and wiped her forehead again, her eyes averted. "I remember." He was deft with a scythe, she knew that for sure, and his favorite weapon – a long, sharp hunting knife – stayed close at his side, regardless of his amiable nature.

"But Isaac is our leader," Malachai offered, apparently eager to guide her attention away from his unusual talent, "and you're afraid of what he can do if you refuse him."

"Yes," she said again, but this time she was enthusiastic, her head bobbing up and down in agreement. "I mean, how will I know that if I keep refusing him – that he won't – well… you know?" Rebekah shrugged her shoulders helplessly. He gave her a slow nod, his gaze focused on the rafters above her.

"Yeah. I know." Malachai chuckled for no apparent reason and shifted, his body leaning towards hers. "You have no guarantee he won't snap. None at all. He has the faith of this whole fucking town behind him, and part of _me_ even knows that he has far more power than he's shown us yet." She stiffened a little as he paused, thinking, then reached for her hand. His freckled fingers touched hers and Rebekah felt something cold slither through her. "Be careful," Malachai warned.

"I have to go," she mumbled, getting clumsily to her feet. Malachai grasped her arm firmly before she could leave.

"I'm serious. You can't keep mouthing off and treating him however you please. He'll grow tired of it… eventually. I don't want to see you get hurt." Rebekah lingered for a moment, looking into the redhead's stern freckled face, then broke free.

"Sure," she said vacantly. She began to move towards the open barn doors, her only glimpse into a somewhat sane world. The heat rippled through the air outside but Rebekah knew she'd be able to breathe there; the warmth rising from the hay was choking her.

"Isaac believes he can make anything happen," Malachai said, and slowly released her arm. She broke free as soon as the last finger left her skin. Rebekah hurried through the doors, the summer air hitting her lungs like a blast from a furnace.

"Oh, fuck," she breathed, not sure where she was headed but needing to be far away from the barn.

"Be careful, Rebekah," he called after her. His voice was distant. "This is Isaac's Gatlin now."


End file.
